


they’re singing deck the halls (but it’s not like christmas at all)

by aceofdiamonds



Series: is that such a stretch of the imagination? [8]
Category: Gossip Girl, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5507468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>blair and harry's christmas </p><p>As Christmas approaches Harry has been getting more and more hyped up, sending her pictures of him in his Quidditch robes, a Santa hat perched on his head, his smile so big his glasses are digging into his cheeks, and when Blair replies with a candy cane held against her mouth, red matching red, her eyes open impossibly wide and coy, she sees that he screenshots it and desperately wants to know what he does with it later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they’re singing deck the halls (but it’s not like christmas at all)

**Author's Note:**

> i've been shoving christmas into everything i can think of atm. this is a year and a half on from the honeymoon with harry following a quidditch career and blair advancing in her fashion designing. also, to make this crack verse somewhat realistic, harry and blair are about twenty four/twenty five/twenty six but the year is 2015 because a lot of current technology is mentioned, so, just, keep that in mind? title is from christmas (baby please come home) because i've not been listening to anything else for at least a week now

  
_why did you text me the girl with her hand raised emoji_

_why did you text me it five times_

it’s mariah carey!!!! this is her time to shine!!! her big moment!!!!

and it’s five days till christmas, so, five mariahs

a mariah countdown, if you will

_you’re insane_

but you love me

_but i love you_

  
  


.

  
  


Some days, when Harry sends her no less than six links to Buzzfeed articles or videos of animals doing stupid things or books he think she might like, Blair half regrets persuading him to get a phone. But then she reads the links and learns something and she watches the video and smiles a little and she looks at the book recommendations and sees how well he knows her and she knows she doesn’t regret it at all.

It’s easier to explain to their friends, the couple who still don’t know about Harry and his magic yet, now that he has a phone and is somewhat in touch with modern technology.

And, and this is the big one, it helps when she misses him so much her heart hurts but he’s thousands of miles away and she has to crawl into bed alone. They’re making it work, the long-distance thing, and of course it’s helped immensely by the fact that Harry can Apparate and be here whenever she needs him, but he can’t always do that when they’re both busy with work, and so this is when the phones are essential.

He snapchats her pictures from his Quidditch training, probably breaking a few dozen club rules when he sends her videos of his Tornado teammates swooping across the empty stadium, learning rolls and weaves that make Blair dizzy. She sends him back designs she’s been working on, little snippets of drawings, a sleeve from here or a hem from there, and when she gets home she documents her making toast, remembering when she would mock couples who lived through social media, not having the need of it before, not realising the countless benefits.

As Christmas approaches Harry has been getting more and more hyped up, sending her pictures of him in his Quidditch robes, a Santa hat perched on his head, his smile so big his glasses are digging into his cheeks, and when Blair replies with a candy cane held against her mouth, red matching red, her eyes open impossibly wide and coy, she sees that he screenshots it and desperately wants to know what he does with it later.

“When are you coming home?” she asks when they FaceTime the following day. They’re both stretched out in bed despite the time difference; Harry’s training for the final of the season has fucked up his sleeping pattern so badly he seems to be awake whenever Blair contacts him, whatever the time. He looks rumpled and sleepy, hair sticking up everywhere, and when Blair yawns into her hand he ducks his head closer to the screen and grins lazily.

They’ve been married for eighteen months now and it’s going so great but Blair is finding it hard to let go of that anxiety that is always telling her they only have one more month and then that’s it, no more happiness allowed. That hasn’t happened yet; aside from a few major fights about both pursuing their dreams in different countries and living apart for too-long stretches of time. They’re together as much as they can be, never going longer than ten days without face-to-face contact and Blair knows when Quidditch season’s over and this fashion show is out of the way they’ll have loads of time to see each other but now, with New York so beautiful, the apartment so empty, and Christmas so close, it feels ten times worse than usual being alone.

“Christmas Eve,” Harry tells her, grimacing when she groans. “I know, I’m sorry, Blair, but Birch wants us to have a post-match practice and I have to be there.”

“Birch isn’t married,” Blair points out, glaring at the thought of the Tornados’ Keeper stomping around the pitch, his hair sticking up everywhere, growl on his face. “This is why.”

“He’s married to his job,” Harry agrees, shuffling further under the covers. The scar on his forehead is barely noticeable to Blair after all this time but when she looks at it now she swears it’s paler than it was when they first met. That must be what happens to curses when their owner is killed -- they fade over time. His finger runs over it absent-mindedly as she watches him and when he catches her eye she pulls her gaze away, focusing on his face.  

“I wish I could come to the match,” she says, resting her chin on her hand. “Show a bit of support.” Plus she hasn’t seen Hermione, Ron and Ginny in a few weeks and it’d be good to catch up just in time for Christmas. She’s continually surprised at how much she enjoys spending time with the three of them, even when at times she feels a little out of the loop, and again she’s surprised at how much she likes watching Quidditch. Okay, she doesn’t love it, but she likes a lot more than she guessed she would considering how she feels about other sports; this is likely due to the fact that almost three years in she’s still a little in awe of any aspect of the Wizarding world and also due to the fact that her husband is the best Seeker in Britain. No, she’s not biased.

“And I wish I could come to your fashion show,” Harry replies, nudging his glasses when they slip down his nose. He looks exhausted and she knows she does too but she doesn’t want to stop talking yet. Her bed is cold; she misses the way he’s always running so much warmer than she is and how he can throw his arm around her and warm her up almost immediately. “I’ll be there soon.”

They both call their separate countries home still despite the shared apartments in each city; both fully committed to the transatlantic relationship but clinging to their homes thousands of miles from each other. They’re going to settle down properly soon, they can’t keep up this arrangement forever, and Blair has no idea how they’re going to do it. They’re both too stubborn for it to result in anything less than a fight.  

“So I’ll see you on Thursday?”

“I should be there by five,” Harry says.

Blair drops her face into the pillow. “That’s so long away.”

When she lifts her head again Harry is watching her, mouth in a line, eyes dark. “You’ll be busy,” he says bracingly after a moment. “You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

She’s Blair Waldorf, head of Waldorf Designs, queen of New York City, of course she’ll be fine. It’s just that it’s Christmas, and everything feels ten times more at Christmas. ‘Tis the season and everything.

“You awake enough for phone sex?” she asks, clearing her throat to dissolve the sadness that keeps latching on to her.

Harry wriggles around, emerging from under the covers with his t-shirt missing, and then he nods, affirmative. “Always.”

Blair smiles as she twists to lie on her back, letting the phone fall flat on her stomach as she maneuvers her pyjama bottoms down to her knees, and then she lies back and listens to the changes in Harry’s voice as he gets more and more worked up, listens to the broken off moans as they tell each other what they would be doing if they weren’t separated by an ocean, and when she watches him come through the screen that is too small she drops her head onto the pillow and follows him and then she does something she doesn’t do often -- she wishes the days away.

  


.

  


_harry i’m working_

babe c’mon [and then a string of mariahs]

_that’s too many it’s only two days to go_

_[two mariahs]_

hey blair

_what_

all i want for christmas is you

_ugh, potter_

where’s your romance blair [a crying face emoji followed by red lips followed by a broken heart]

_baby please come home_

[a string of christmas trees, followed by a red heart]

  
  


.

  


On December 23rd Blair says goodbye to Serena after the show and then grabs a taxi home, caught between going for a bath as soon as she’s in the door or phoning for a Chinese, but when the car pulls up outside her building the lights are on. She hands the driver the fare plus tip and shuts the door with a bang, heels clipping quickly up the steps and into the elevator. She’s being ridiculous, she knows as she leans on the back of the elevator, watching the numbers climb. Harry said he’s coming home tomorrow, after his extra practice, and he’s a horrible liar, she would’ve seen through him, but when she steps out of the elevator she can hear him singing in the kitchen and she realises she’s been tricked.

“I can’t believe you, Harry,” she calls through, dropping her purse by the hall table and kicking off her shoes.

She pads through to the kitchen where he’s standing next to the stove still in his blue Quidditch uniform, spatula in his hand and a big stupid grin on his face. “Hey, I’m a wizard, Blair,” he teases, dropping the spatula into a pot and crossing the room to pull her into a hug. “I can do unbelievable things.”

“I would’ve been home sooner if I knew you were going to be here,” she tells him, burrowing her face in his top. It doesn’t really hit her until now how much she hates this arrangement they have, this living apart for so long, no matter how necessary it is for their careers. Maybe it’s the time of year that’s amplifying the feelings but she knows that in the New Year they’ll have to try and find another solution.

“How was the show? Gutted I couldn’t be there.”

“It was good,” Blair says, still holding on tight. It had been amazing, actually. There had been no disasters, no drama, and afterwards several major buyers had stayed behind to pass on their contact details, carefully controlled smiles on their mouths as she had thanked them. The icing on the cake had been the proud look her mother had sent her from across the room where she was discussing the show with The New York Times and the quick hug she had given her before she left with Cyrus. She’ll tell Harry all about it later. To stand here, just holding each other, feels more important. “Did you win?”

“Yeah,” and when she tips her head up she sees his grin. “390-240.”

“A Christmas miracle,” she laughs and then yelps when his fingers find the spot on her hip that makes her wriggle and scream. “Harry -- Harry -- _stop_.”

He does, hands pulling her close again. They should move from the kitchen. “I’ve missed you.”

“Hey, Harry,” Blair whispers, rocking onto her tiptoes to lean in close.

“What, Blair?” He smells like freshly mown grass and the glossiness of the programmes they sell at the matches. Under that Blair can smell a tinge of sweat and under that she can smell the gum Harry always chews before he plays a big match. He must have come straight from the match.

“All I want for Christmas is you,” and that makes him tip back his head and laugh, never loosening his hold around Blair’s waist. “Shut up. I thought you'd want me to say it.”

“I did,” he admits, smile still so wide when his laughter calms down. “I just never expected you to, Waldorf.”

“See? I'm full of surprises. Now take me to bed.”

“That’s the best thing I’ve heard in days.”

She kisses him, then, and it’s the best thing she could have ever asked for.

  


.

  


They spend Christmas morning in Manhattan, huddled on the couch as they open presents and drink mulled wine. Harry gives her a necklace that changes colour when she touches it, swirling from a pale blue to a deep sea green when she first clasps it in her hand and then blossoming into a shocking pink when she fastens it around her neck. When Harry opens the signed copy of the Lord of the Rings he gapes at her, thumbing through the old pages carefully, laughing as he always does at the magic and the dwarves. Since she first threw him the books over a year ago he’s read them at least five times since, his current copies battered and dog-eared. She doesn’t understand the fascination; he’s a wizard himself, he can do all of those things, and then some, all without a ring around his neck and a gang of disgusting creatures after him, but she had pulled a few strings, enlisting Dan’s publishing contacts, and she had procured a bound copy signed by J.R.R Tolkien, and, looking at his face as he flicks to his favourite passages, she knows it was worth it.

After a drink with Serena and Dan they Apparate to the Burrow for the rest of the day where there are several children running around Blair’s knees, new presents clutched in their hands. She’s never much liked chaos but she quite likes the brand of chaos she’s always greeted with her; it’s warm and inviting, different in a hundred ways from the brunches and coffees with Lily and Eleanor at the helm. She’s been to the Burrow a few times now and everyone’s always been kind to her but it takes her a few minutes every time to familiarise herself with the environment so different from everything else she knows.

Victoire passes her as she’s taking her scarf off -- as the oldest of the Weasley grandchildren, save for Teddy, Harry’s godson who is with his grandmother for the day, she has an air of responsibility and smugness that even at six Blair recognises from her childhood surrounded by Serena, Eric, Nate and Chuck, always the smartest in the room. “I like your dress, Victoire,” Blair says, leaning down to finger the soft material of her sleeve. Fleur’s got good taste.

“Thank you, Aunt Blair,” Victoire replies, beaming, a gap in her front teeth. “Your dress is pretty, too.”

“Thanks,” Blair smiles back, running a hand over Victoire’s head, laughing when she’s shrugged off before she follows her into the living room where the largest number of Weasleys have congregated. She finds a space next to George, the sibling she both feels closest to and most unnerved by, that huge loss constantly hovering beside him in a way that Blair never quite knows how to react to. He seems alright for the moment, though, leaning back in the couch, a glass of Firewhiskey cradled in his hand, and when Blair sits down beside him he smiles at her and offers her a sip.

“No, thanks, I hate that stuff,” she says, the way she says every time he offers her a drink even though he’s heard the story of her and Harry’s honeymoon a dozen times.

“I’m waiting for your attention to lapse,” he tells her, knowing what she’s thinking. She’s always liked George. He’s funny, clever in ways Blair has never fully appreciated before, and he always knows the right things to say.  

“You’ll be waiting a long time.”

“How’s New York this time of year?” he asks, nudging her a little as Bill and Lucy settle on the couch.

“Beautiful,” she says, telling him about the Rockefeller tree and the shop windows and everything else about the city so far from the scene in this room it’s a wonder they’re part of the same world at all. “You should come visit when you’ve got a holiday.”

“Humour never takes a holiday, Blair,” he says, face so serious before he cracks into a laugh. “But maybe, yeah, Harry’s always raving about it.”

“Might meet someone. It’s the city of love, after all.”

“Isn’t that Paris?”

Harry joins them then, balancing on the arm of the couch, his hand on Blair’s shoulder to stop him from wobbling. “Nah, Manhattan’s definitely better.”

“You’re biased, mate,” George reminds him. “Congrats on the match, by the way. I couldn’t get away but Ron told me that was some catch.”

Harry shrugs, all modest. “Gallagher wasn’t paying close enough attention.”

“Think the Tornadoes’ll win next season? You lot going for the record?”

“Birch thinks so. I’ve never seen him as manic as he was before the match the other day.”

“Remind you of Wood, eh?”

Harry laughs, hand warm where it’s shifted to brush Blair’s neck. “Almost.”

Blair steals a sip from the glass of wine in Harry’s hand, content to sit back among the family and listen.

  


.

  


_come outside xx_

  


.

  


When Blair has excused herself from the conversation she was having with Fleur and Charlie about the merits of faes over imps she pulls on the green sweater with a B stitched on with silver wool and steps into the dark garden.

“Harry?” she whispers into the dark.

“Over here,” he says quietly from a few feet away. She makes her way over to him, pulling the sweater down over her hands, shivering in spite of the warm material. It’s a different kind of cold here in England than it is in New York -- bitier, icier.

“What’re you doing out here, Harry?”

Through the dark she can see him shrug. She steps closer, an arm reaching around his waist, a burst of heat shooting through her when she leans against him.

“Was too warm in there,” he says, “too crowded.”

“Yeah. Sometimes you just need a minute to yourself,” Blair agrees. Then, as they’re sort of on the topic she says, “Harry, we can’t do what we’ve been doing any longer.”

“Living in two countries?” he asks, and when she nods he sighs. “I know. I hate it too.”

“We can’t be married and yet barely see each other,” she goes on, breath misty in front of her. “I know we have it better than most with your --” she waves her hand here to indicate Harry’s magic. “But I can’t go back to living in that apartment alone. Either we live in Britain or we live in Manhattan.”

Harry drops his head to rest his chin on her shoulder. She can smell treacle on his breath and a trace of Firewhiskey but she pushes past the Firewhiskey and twists her neck to kiss him anyway, letting her lips rest against his for a beat longer than a usual peck.

“We’ll work it out,” he promises her and rests his cheek on hers. They should go back inside, people will be wondering where they are, but Blair is warm enough to stay where she is for a short while longer.

“And how will we do that?”

“We’ll find a way,” Harry says. “But don’t worry, Blair, we’re not going to be apart anymore, wherever we end up, okay?”

“Okay,” she replies, throwing all of her trust at him in a way she is still wary to do even at twenty five and with Gossip Girl long gone. She’s thrown everything at Harry since the moment she met him, everything good and bad.

“Let's go inside. Ron didn't believe me when I told him all you want for Christmas is me."

"You didn't tell him that," Blair replies, eyes narrowed. 

"I didn't," Harry admits, "but it'd be a good way to spread the joy, wouldn't it?" 

Blair rolls her eyes, doesn't dignify that with a response, and tilts her head up to watch the stars. "Merry Christmas, Harry," she mumbles, slipping her hands into his pockets. 

"Merry Christmas, Blair."

 

  
  
  
  



End file.
